


Perchance We'll Dream

by thewightknight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Future, Ignoring Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan deals with Solas' abandonment in her own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance We'll Dream

**Author's Note:**

> May 1st: “I should write something in high fantasy narrative style,” she said. “It’ll be fun!” she said.  
> May 15th: "What the f--k was I thinking?!?"  
> May 20th: "No one is ever going to read this, why am I bothering?"  
> May 29th. "Well, it's done. Finally. Might as well post it, I guess. Maybe it's not horrible."
> 
> This does go decades into the future, just to warn you. Not everyone will still be around by the end, but most of them go "off-screen," so to speak.

She did not try to lie to herself. She had begun spending time in the Fade in the hopes that she would find Solas there. She started in his room in the tower, curling up every night on a couch she had dragged in there for this purpose and drifting off to sleep staring at the murals he had left behind. He had taught her how to pierce the Veil in dreaming over long months past, even in areas where the Veil wasn’t thin. He had helped her to learn control, to keep away the nightmares. Now, even though her days were becoming waking nightmares, at least she could control where her slumbers took her. 

She had never been comfortable in her role as Inquisitor, and had only grown worse. The humans treated her differently now. She would have attributed it to a lessening of her importance after Corypheus’ defeat and the closing of the Breach and rifts once and for all, except it has begun before, after Solas had removed her _vallaslin_. The humans had held the _elvhen_ in disdain for so long, and without her blood writing she'd become even less in their eyes. To them, she was now in appearance merely a common city elf. Even though she managed to coax Vivienne’s tailor into producing clothes that managed to convey Dalish stylings and influences, the increase in their unconscious disdain made her grind her teeth while she went through the motions, smiling and nodding and playing the Game.

It had not taken long, a week or two, perhaps, before she noticed that the voices in her head, those that had come to her from the Well of Sorrows, were clearer when she walked her dreams. She had ignored it at first, the search for Solas taking precedence. But when she’d been called upon to make a trip to Redcliffe for yet another round of politics, she snuck out of the inn the first evening and made her way to the mine where they’d found that first _elvhen_ artifact. She spent the night there, bringing down a ram on the way, leaving food out for the spiders. That night instead of searching for her lost love she dreamt of a group of men and women carving and casting into stone. She was one of them in the dream, and the spells with which they imbued the artifact danced just outside of her understanding.

When she returned, she started pestering Leliana for reports her spies had gathered during their fight against Corypheus. Her requests yielded a stack of reports on old ruins that they had not investigated. With these in her possession she found excuses to start traveling again. It was not as if she accomplished much anymore, staying at Skyhold. She would touch hands with the nobles who trickled in for trumped up reasons, who in truth wanted only the prestige that would come from their meeting. 

The next time she slept in a ruin, a small shrine deep in the Emerald Graves, a presence materialized beside her as she followed the penitent’s path. A woman cloaked in flowing robes chanted as they walked the path together. The meaning eluded her the first night, but on the next the gist of it started making itself known. By the third night the chant sang in her head. She joined in an ancient greeting for the dawn, holding hands with Mythal’s servant as they circled her statue in a shrine new and whole. When she woke, she took up pen and paper and recorded the chant, both in the ancient tongue and the modern.

Her duties at Skyhold seemed even more pointless when she returned and she longed to be away again. The Advisors all sensed her inquietude, and she knew they attributed it to heartsickness. She played on this, took shameless advantage, excusing herself from more of her ceremonial duties. She picked and chose where she would go with care, selecting missions that would place her close to another ruin or ancient monument.

This went on for several months and she filled a book with knowledge gleaned from the voices of the Well. When she had covered the last page with ancient knowledge and part of the back cover as well, she declared to the Advisors that she had been gone from her clan too long and would visit them. She vetoed their plans for a grand procession, then an honor guard. Finally they agreed to an escort of only Blackwall, Varric and Dorian, with a hand of scouts and soldiers. Varric provided the excuse, in fact, as he had expressed a desire to return to Kirkwall. She let it be known that she intended to see him home and then continue on to her clan’s summer campgrounds.

Packing for the journey, she realized that there was nothing from her rooms that she wanted to take with her. The court garb, fancy tunics and dresses all, were merely masks for her whole body. The various sets of robes and armor were encumbrances. The books she had collected, once precious to her beyond imagining, were full of what she now discovered to be false history and faulty knowledge. She had acquired no sentimental keepsakes, nothing but memories, many of which now painful to recall. It made what she planned to do on this trip that much easier. She packed only blank journals, ink and sand and quills, a few simple blouses and trousers. She donned a set of robes that was not the finest but the most comfortable and well-worn. The rest she left behind without a single thought of regret, staff clattering as she bounding down the stairs from the tower two at a time. 

The journey called to mind other trips a year and more past, but with that disconnect she had felt so often of late. It had been herself, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas – not Dorian and Blackwall – making these journeys. She could close her eyes and imagine them there across the fire from her, Cassandra snorting in disgust and the corner of Solas’ mouth curling in the slightest of smiles after one of Varric’s more outrageous yarns. That night she dreamed in truth, not Fade-walking, that he was still there with her and beside her as she slept. She awoke with her bedroll damp from tears. 

It was only the second time she had stepped foot in a sailing vessel, the first being when she had traveled to Haven, and she spent most of their sea journey standing in the prow, feeling nothing but the sway of the deck under her feet and the wind and water against her body. Seeing Varric’s face as they docked at Kirkwall tugged at her heart, for she had no place that could evoke such emotion in her. She had no home.

She knew her companions would have preferred to spend more time in town and enjoy another evening or three at an inn before setting out again but she impatience drove to finish this part of her journey and she cajoled them back out onto the road. Quiet ruled their evening camps now, in part because of Varric’s absence but also because she found it impossible to concentrate on the now when the path she had set for herself was so near her feet.

Leliana had, of course, sent word of her travel to the clan, and they had prepared a grand feast in celebration of her return. They spent the first day in joyous abandon and the second flew as old friends sought her out. The morning of the third, she closeted herself with Keeper Deshanna and they spent most of the day closeted in the Keeper's _aravel_. What she told her Keeper, her mentor, her friend, troubled the woman, she knew. The truth of _Asha'bellanar_ , of how the _elvhen_ had fallen, of what the _vallaslin_ represented. She gave the Keeper the book, asking her to pass along the knowledge within to all the clans. Then she excused herself to walk, ostensibly to commune with the forest, but also to spent time with the halla. A handsful of young bucks agreed to the request she made of them and after the evening meal she pled exhaustion and retired to her tent. 

Late that night (or was it early morning?) she shouldered her pack and made her way quietly out into the forest. She left no note behind, as there were no words that she could find that would properly excuse or explain her actions. And besides she thought her companions would understand even without the effort. The halla waited for her, and after she mounted the fleetest they sped away deep into the forest, each taking a different path. Hers took a meandering route at first, crossing waterways and doubling back, and then took her north and east, far from habited lands. A full three days he carried her, until they were nigh to the coast. Her voices had led her to this place, a vast and ancient ruin almost completely reclaimed by the trees. She bade her mount farewell with thanks and he bowed to her before vanishing back into the forest. 

How long she stayed there, she was uncertain. She could account for one winter, but could not remember whether two winters more or three had passed. She found a room that was mostly intact, repaired it against the elements, and spent the months hunting and foraging during the day and dreaming at night. She was more select in recording what she learned this time, spending weeks chasing a particular memory before scribing it on parchment. It wasn’t until she had halfway filled her last journal that she finally left her refuge. She picked a direction and started walking until she hit a road, then chose a direction at random and followed the road to the nearest habitation. She never learned the name of the town, but it was large enough to have an alienage. City elves were still _elvhen_ , and she only had so much room in her pack, so she left two of her filled journals with their _hahren_ , traded some rare herbs and ancient coins for a half a dozen empty more and continued down the road. 

This time she listened to the woods and animals, and let them lead her to the nearest clan. She was greeted with suspicion by the first scouts she met, her lack of _vallaslin_ making them doubt her claims of kinship, but they agreed to allow her admittance, and after a short time with their Keeper they made her welcome. They were a small clan, always traveling, but they often crossed paths with other clans. It was still several years until the next _Arlathvhen_ , so she left her remaining writings with their Keeper, asking her to distribute them to other clans as they met. Their craftsman provided her with more blank journals and parchment, and fashioned her a map case at her request.

This time she charted her travels, marking the ruins where she stopped. The first were small, and their memories yielded themselves to her in only a few months. They led her step by step across the Free Marches until she found another ancient ruin where the Planasene Forest met the Vinmark Mountains. There she stayed again for untold seasons, lost in dreams yet again.

The lore of Mythal came to her with ease, as these were her servants who dwelt within her, but she wanted more. She pieced together histories of the other gods who may not have been not gods, from phrases spoken here and there by her voices, by ancient scrolls and carvings, and from words not spoken or written at all. The few _eluvians_ she found were damaged or fouled with the Taint or both. The voices bemoaned the loss of their aid in travel, and she shrugged and shouldered her pack and threaded her way through the forests, making her own paths more often than not.

The seasons blurred and she continued to record the forgotten lore, seeking out clans or cities to trade filled journals for blank. She made her own inks from the herbs she gathered, and transcribed the recipes for these as well. There was no pattern to the knowledge she scribed onto her blank pages. She simply recorded each new bit of lore as it came to her. 

She missed the first _Arlathvhen_ by design, but was surprised to find she had missed the next by accident. She had meant to go, to lose herself in the crowds of Dalish gathered, to listen and learn. She wished to see if and how the ancient lore affected her people. But she had lingered too long unraveling the secrets at yet another an ancient temple and the gathering passed as she Dreamed through her dreams. And she might not have been able to lose herself, to listen undisturbed to her people, she came to realize, when she learned that to them she was no longer El’Adar Lavellan, who had ventured forth to spy on the humans’ Conclave and survived to become the leader of the Inquisition. Instead, they now called her _Asha’Setheneran_ , the Woman of the Waking Dream. 

She canvassed the Free Marches from waters to mountains, and then made her way to the Dales. She found less here, thanks to the depredations of the Exalted March and centuries of “study” by the Orlesians. Still, she managed to coax some secrets from their ancient stones. From there she ventured north into Tevinter, where her voices were more elusive, their secrets harder to evoke, but more treasured for these reasons. She now thought she might have missed a third gathering, but not in certainty, as the passage of time had become unimportant to her.

She recorded the true history of her people. She recorded ancient magics lost through the ages, including the true blood magics, born from one’s own blood freely spent. She recorded the stories of those who had come to be called gods. Throughout all her journeys, though, and as the years rolled past, she searched and listened for three things that continued to elude her. Although she was bound to Mythal, the goddess remained elusive, never calling, never demanding. She searched for any clues that would lead her to lost Arlathan, but it was as if it had truly been sunk into the earth as the legends state, for no vestige of the ancient home of her people could be found. And not once throughout her travels did she find any trace of her missing love. She still sought his presence from time to time, both in the physical world and through the Veil, but had lost any real expectations of ever finding him again over the years. He had hidden himself as thoroughly as the legends stated the magisters had buried Arlathan, or so it seemed.

After untold days, she at last admitted her defeat in her quest for these three things, and found herself unsatisfied. For the first time since she had walked away from Skyhold, she began to think of what she had left behind. One morning, she awoke, and looked about her, and realized that she craved the sound of voices that existed outside of her own head, and the faces of those she once called friend. She packed her few belongings and left the half-explored ruin without a backwards glance. 

The closer she came, the more and less similar the paths and roads she traveled were. Familiar landmarks were framed between new habitations and structures. Monuments had sprung up along the way. The first time she came to a statue of herself she stopped dead in the middle of the road. No others shared that stretch of road at that time, and a good thing, because unlike the weather-worn statues who had been her companions for these past years this was new and fresh and portrayed her likeness in great and exact detail. After the initial shock faded she pulled her hood up, shadowing her face, and continued on her way.

A paved road now ran through the mountains, wide enough that two carriages could pass with room to spare. She disappeared into the crowd for the last few days of her journey, lost in a throng of pilgrims making their way through the mountains to Skyhold. The fortress looked unchanged, at least. The gates themselves were closed and barred for the masses, who camped on the grounds outside the fortress. As she watched, some approached the walls, touched them, then turned and began their way back down the road. 

She joined those that made camp in the waysides that had sprung up around Skyhold. Some pilgrims stayed for a day or two and left. Some had made their camp more permanent and prayed and meditated day after day. She moved among them, observing, for a time, and then, cloaking herself with ancient lore she attached herself to the tail of the procession for some lord that passed through the gates. 

From outside the fortress had looked as she remembered, but once inside it was a different matter. Her memories overlaid the new construction, grass and gravel in the courtyard instead of marble paving, scattered trees instead of sculpted gardens. Monuments she found here as well, herself in heroic poses brandishing stone staffs set with lyrium in each of the corners. The Great Hall, too, was now a vision of white and gold. The only color came from the mosaics still mounted on the walls. As she flitted through the keep, silently observing, she learned that the changes had been made in preparation for the quarter century celebration of her defeat of Corypheus, now two years past. Of her companions, no mention was made except for Josephine and Blackwall, who still resided within the walls. She saw no sign of them, though, and learned that Blackwall had fallen ill, and Josephine would not leave his side. 

With all the passage of time and improvements made, her favorite hiding places still remained undisturbed. She passed her first evening at Skyhold on the roof over the armory, sleeping under the stars in the shadow of the wall. 

The next day she again spent observing, listening. She found her way to the gardens. Monuments had been raised there for each of her companions. Some had dates inscribed on the steles, and in this way she learned of the passing of The Iron Bull, of Varric, of Sera. Listening and following, she learned the location of Josephine’s and Blackwall’s quarters, observing the servants and healers who visited there. They conversed in hushed whispers outside the door, concern evident in their voices. 

That night she ghosted through the fortress’ hallways, slipping into their rooms in the early hours of the morning. Seeing them brought home to her for the first time the years she had spent wandering, seeing the streaks of grey in Josephine’s hair, finding Blackwall’s turned pure white. Josephine had fallen asleep in a chair next to his bed, his hand held in hers. Blackwall's other hand rested atop the coverlet, and even in the moonlight his skin looked parchment thin and pale. She had made no noise, she knew, but as she neared the bed his breathing changed and his eyes opened. He showed no sign of alarm, though, just reached out to her, and she took the hand offered in hers, squeezing it gently in comfort. He breathed a few words which she strained to make out. _Andraste’s chosen_ , he murmured. _Come to take me to her side at last._ He breathed in, out, in, and out one more time, and then stilled, his eyes looking past her, filled with peace. 

She closed them gently, placed his hand on his chest, and as she turned to leave, a painting caught her eye. Why would they have a painting of her in their quarters, she wondered, but then the painting moved and she realized it was not oil and canvas but silvered glass. For the first time in decades she beheld her face, and found it unchanged from the day on which she had left these walls. She stared in shock at her unlined face, still seemingly that of an elf woman of twenty-some years, and she remembered the words that had been uttered at the Well of Sorrows. Bound forever to the will of Mythal, indeed. There were no answers for here, she realized, and she knew where she must now go.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The human scholars who had descended on the Temple of Mythal after Corypheus’ fall had left mementos of their presence. Remains of old campfires dotted the courtyard, and the weather had blown scattered pieces of crumpled parchment into crevices. She prowled the halls the first day, trailing fingers along the walls, as the voices clamored in her head, louder and more disorganized than they had been since the first day she drank from the Well. That evening she visited each of the statues in the courtyard, paying her respect in a way to each of the beings they represented. She ended her circuit at the statue of Fen’Harel. Weathered and worn by the elements, the ancient stone looked back at her with the shadow of sad eyes. They called to mind another set, staring down at her from the top of stairs in a ruin in the sky, and she found herself sobbing, the grief fresh again as if years had not passed since he had severed the last ties between them and walked away.

She must have fallen asleep there, leaning against the warm stone, because the temple melted away before her and she was back in Solas’ room in the tower, and she found him painting a new mural, of a woman walking in a ruin. She could not tell if it was a simple dream or if they were in the Fade together at last, and it did not matter. She railed against him, pounding on his chest with her fists as he took her into his arms, and his apologies and endearments washed over her and finally she silenced him with her own lips. There in this dream he gave her what he had previously withheld those many years past, the touch of his body against hers. As they moved together the murals blurred and blended and the colors flared and faded into muted greens and browns and greys, becoming the ruined temple in which she slept in dream as well as truth.

She awoke drained and tired and stiff and sore from the awkward position in which she had slumbered, leaning against a stone statue in a stone courtyard grown cold in the dark of night. The voices still clamored, and she did as they demanded, walking the penitent’s paths again, unlocking the door, and entering the chamber where she had drunk the Well dry. The voices rose until she could hear nothing but their cries, so jumbled she could not pick out a single one of them in the chorus, and as she neared the pool that had once been filled with water, she was surprised to find a shallow puddle there. Of a sudden, the cacophony ceased, and in the abrupt silence a new voice called to her from the Well, asking, begging, pleading with her. _Drink_ , it said. _Drink_. She knelt and took the water into her cupped hands, and raised it to her lips. The voice exploded through her, asking permission, and she said yes, and with a triumphant cry a presence exploded out from the eluvian behind the Well, enveloping her and sinking in through her skin, through her soul. 

Lightning and fire and ice and earth rose up around her as her form melted and shifted and she raised her wings and roared to the sky. For she was now not just the container for the Well but the vessel for Mythal, thrice betrayed and returned again, and she would hunt her betrayer through the earth and through the Veil until she regained what was taken from her and took her revenge. With strong beats she lifted herself, bursting through the stones above, taking to the sky. He thought to hide from her, but she would rend the world apart until she found him, her friend, her betrayer. He would pay for what he had done to her, and to the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there it is. If you made it all the way to the end, I'm raising a tankard in your honor.
> 
>  
> 
> [Here's El'adar.](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/tagged/el'adar)
> 
>  
> 
> Feel free to come say hi over on [tumblr](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/).


End file.
